Untitled
by this-is-not-allowed
Summary: I want to write a tragic love story that will have the people of the world sobbing on their knees, but in order to do so, I'd first have to know how it feels to love. Very AU.
1. Prologue

Prologue:

I want to write a tragic love story that will have the people of the world sobbing on their knees, but in order to do so, I'd first have to know how it feels to love. Funny how what you'd planned on doing in your younger years and what you actually ended up doing were two complete polar opposites of one another, isn't it?

I've never been one for feelings. As a child, I'd learned—through the consecutive investments and deaths of my only three pets ever, all within 72 hours of each other (don't ask)—not to get too attached to anything. I'd also learned how to stifle pain, anger, fear, even _happiness_, because emotions show weakness and it was basically a death sentence on a platter to be considered weak in my house. Growing up in one of the roughest neighborhoods in America; in the shadow of a gruff father who was too busy saving other people's lives to worry about those of his own family; and a mother who was so constantly imbibed with alcohol that she gave less of a fuck about us than the senators who claim to think only of the people, despite how they screw their country over term after countless term with those million-dollar smiles on their faces.

But I digress with that beautiful run-on sentence. You probably don't want to hear me talk about my less-than-satisfactory childhood, nor do you want to listen to me rant about my political beliefs. You'd probably like to read a tragic love story as much as I'd like to _write_ one.

Fat chance of that ever happening.

The funny thing is, I'd actually had an opportunity to learn what love is. A year ago to this day, I met someone who could possibly have changed my life forever. Four months ago to this day, I screwed everything up and disappeared, because hurting people seems to be what I do best and it was better to leave before the pain grew to be irrevocable. I'd tell you _that _story, but a heartless coward's almost-love probably isn't what you had in mind when you chose to find a romantic read.

At the same time, though, I feel like I'll explode if I keep anything else inside of me. I've kept years of feelings trapped within this heart; I don't know how much more it can take. It's already shown signs of wear-n-tear. I've felt my heart fissure; I've seen a thin but powerful geyser of emotion spill forth from that infinitesimal crack, a spontaneous burst that both relieved and frightened me at once. I don't want to experience that again.

So my question is this: to write, or not to write?

I think it's best to just let it all out one bit at a time. A page a day keeps the heartache away, or something to that effect. Maybe my tale isn't the tragic romance that I wish it could be, and maybe you won't need an assload of tissues when you reach the end—but maybe if you're like me, or even if you aren't, you'll find something worthwhile in this and in me; something that I missed or misinterpreted the first time around, something for you to hold on to when you're remembering who you left behind and wishing you weren't so goddamn lonely all the time.

Maybe I can reach you in the way I'd been unwilling to be reached, and it'll be enough to make amends for what I did to her.

Maybe.

* * *

><p>TBC...?<p> 


	2. Chapter 1

They spent their summer mornings waking up early, pressing warm feet to cold, wet grass. They would hold hands and share thoughts as they made the boardwalk their own, laughing together and wishing the summer would never end.

They spent their summer afternoons on the beach, exploring the water and building castles higher than either of them could fathom—castles of dreams and expectations, close enough to touch as they sat around the bonfire and fed each other gooey, half-burnt marshmallows and kissed under the setting sun.

They spent their summer nights in each other's arms, mashing tongues and caressing and learning what it meant to make love, for that's what they believed it was: true love, endless love, a love that would last a lifetime.

But with summer's end came the destruction of their beautiful castle.

* * *

><p><strong>3 years later.<strong>

"Kurt, you know Rachel. I'll try and get back as soon as possible. But no promises." Brittany pulled her heavy coat around her slender body with her free hand, while balancing her cell phone with the other. The winds had picked up considerably in speed as a snow storm was expected to hit Manhattan in the coming hours. Already the city had been pelted with over ten inches and the sidewalks were dangerously treacherous; especially for a woman who happened to be wearing high heels at the time.

"Come on Brittany, Lima's waiting for you, and you promised you'd come back this year." Kurt practically pleaded on the other end. It was Christmas Eve and yet here she was, working (or rather, being called back to work). Brittany was the current choreographer (the fifth one this show's had so far) for one of the most anticipated shows of the year. Rachel Berry's debut show, due to open on New Year's Eve. Everything had to be perfect and precise, as Rachel _**kept on saying**_. Still, it's Christmas Eve, the dancers were getting somewhat restless, and while Brittany's official role was the choreographer, she's also considered to be the peacemaker. Rachel was pretty much a legend in the industry as a performer, but she could be a little…overwhelming to work with. And as a producer, that just got ten times worse. To be perfectly fair though, Brittany didn't mind it so much, she loved interacting with people, getting to know everyone's stories. It was one of the reasons why she was so good at her job, she knows how to bring out the best in people.

Dancing was always one of Brittany's greatest passions in life, and now she got to be the next best thing. A choreographer. She's worked for tv shows, movies, Broadway, done tours with various artists. And she's not even anywhere near 30 yet. When her good friend Rachel from highschool had contacted her about choreographing her first show (well, her agent had, but they did have a proper meeting), she'd agreed immediately, of course.

"Ok, fine, I'll try and get out of it." Brittany came to a stop and held out her hand to flag down a taxi. Unfortunately, it drove right past without even acknowledging her presence. She sighed, well, it was Christmas Eve after all, people are probably rushing home to meet their families. She didn't blame the driver. "I have to go, I'll try my best though, Kurt." Brittany pressed the 'end' button on her phone after quick goodbyes. She didn't really like the subway. The smell of stagnated pee and rotting garbage in some of the lesser maintained areas had always made her gag, and some of the homeless people sometimes hit on her. It was weird. But Kurt was one of her best friends, and she's promised to try her best. Determinedly, she turned and walked towards the direction of the nearest subway.

The ride proved uneventful, other than the crying child that had boarded with its mother at the stop before hers. Brittany wondered why the baby was crying, but thought it rude to ask, since the mother looked rather angry. She hurried from the train and walked in a steady pace until she reached the outside of the station, emerging on to the darkened streets. She was lost in her thoughts when her purse was suddenly yanked from her arm and something hard collided with her head. "Stop," she yelled as she turned and rushed behind the masked assailant. The tall heels she wore made it nearly impossible to run, even with her fitness level. Brittany's head hurt, she felt dizzy, as if the air had left her lungs, causing the world around her to fade to black.

The first thing she noticed when her eyes fluttered open was a pair of warm brown eyes, looking down at her.

"Am I in heaven?" She asked, slowly. If so, where was the guy in the big white robe? Her head was still kind of hurting. She blinked several times as the blurry vision became clearer. The figure above her was a woman, with long, dark hair. She looked worried.

"Um, no," A light chuckle, but then the woman turned serious, "how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two?" Brittany answered.

"Good, now tell me where you are and what your name is."

Brittany told her correctly, and the woman seemed to let out a breath she'd been holding.

"Where's my purse?"

"It's gone, I'm sorry." She shook her head, "but are you okay?"

"I think so," She told her, trying to sit up properly. "My head hurts."

"You shouldn't be here, dressed like that, you know. There's a lot of…well-"

"You mean homeless people? One time, a guy tried to sell me some grass or something. I'm not sure, but it made me feel all weird."

The woman recoiled slightly, not quite sure what to say.

"I should go, I don't think he'll come back."

"Wait, no, don't go." Brittany pressed her hand against the brick wall as she tried to regain her footing. When the woman did not stop, she stumbled forward, collapsing to her knees when a sharp pain shot through her skull and caused her to cry out.

The woman immediately returned to her side. "You need to be careful. You could have a concussion."

"Help me back to my apartment then." Wow, where did that come from? Brittany was never one for, well, inviting strangers back to her home.

"I…" The other woman backed up again, clearly having doubts.

"Please, it's cold, and I heard from the tv that there's gonna be a storm soon."

"Hey, I don't need your pity, ok?" Her expression turned hostile, "I'm fine on my own, thanks."

Brittany blinked, "But why would I pity you?" Realization dawned on her all of a sudden."Wait, you're homeless?"

The other woman nodded, obviously.

"Wow, well then you can stay with me, if you'd like. My apartment's really big, so we don't have to share rooms or anything."

"Why do you care?"

"Well, you pretty much saved my life," Brittany stated, matter-of-factly, like it was no big deal.

The stranger sighed, "Fine, but only for tonight. I don't do charity."

"Okay." Brittany smiled, trying to get on her feet. Her knee still hurt from hitting the ground so hard. A hand almost instantly reached down to grasp hers tightly. "Thanks."

"Are you okay to walk? Or do you need me to carry you?" The woman asked, the last part only half sarcastically.

"But I'm taller than you, and I'm pretty sure I weigh more. We wouldn't be able to go very far."

"…okay then. Do you need some help?"

Brittany nodded, "Yes, please."

The stranger moved her hand to Brittany's waist, causing her to stiffen slightly when she felt the small hands. "It's okay to lean on me. I won't break."

The blonde held out her hand, "I'm Brittany."

"I'm Santana." She said, shaking Brittany's hand.

"Which way?" She asked, grabbing her bags from nearby, as the snow fall began to get heavier.

Brittany shivered as the wet snow seeped through her jacket. She wished she were home right now, curled up in a warm blanket, with Lord Tubbington Jr snuggled up against her. The harshness of the weather, combined with the fact that she'd worked even harder than usual that day made her feel even weaker.

"That way," She pointed to a direction as the pair slowly made their way down the treacherous streets.


	3. Chapter 2

The streets were eerily quiet for New York City. The only sounds were made by the occasional speeding taxi and the synchronized clicking of shoes on the icy sidewalk. Christmas Eve. Santana couldn't even remember the last time she had truly celebrated the holiday. She had no family that she particularly wanted to visit or spend any amount of time with, much less share a holiday meal. Just being in the company of this blonde had placed an odd feeling within her stomach. It was kind of, well, warm and fuzzy. She remembered the last time she felt like this. A few years back..but quickly snapped out of it. Memory lane was not a path she'd like to go down.

Santana's thoughts were broken by the blonde's sudden stop and the clumsy jangling of keys.

"Here. I'll open it." She offered with a chuckle.

Brittany looked hesitant at first, but she handed over her keys wordlessly.

Santana nodded, easily clicking open the lock and opening the door.

The door swung open to reveal a well decorated, colorful, homey looking apartment. Warm air rushed out of the door at the two as they hobbled inside. Santana was stunned. She may not have been there for more than thirty seconds but already this place felt more like a home than anywhere else she had lived. It was slightly messy, not in a pig sty, teenage boy's bedroom kind of way, but it gave off the aura that someone was living in the apartment. The kitchen was all stainless steel, cutting edge, modern and completely sleek. The bedrooms, she suspected, would be colorful and bright, not at all like the black walled basement Santana had previously lived in, or the lifeless walls of her bedroom growing up. The place smelled like shampoo, food, and not anything like the musky stale stench of the subway terminal.

Noticing the awestruck expression on the brunette's face, Brittany spoke up, "It's just an apartment. I try to keep it fairly clean. But uh…"

"It's great, don't worry about it."

"Uh, I can cook something. Do you want to eat?" Brittany asked as she tried to walk over to the fridge, stumbling along the way. Santana's arms were around her before Brittany had the chance to hit the ground. It's nice, human contact that wasn't to fend off a drunken pervert. Also, the blonde smelled kinda nice.

"Sit down. I'll cook. You're letting me stay here for a night and you're hurt. It's the least I could do." Santana shrugged, "What do you want?"

"Whatever you want to cook."

She nodded with a smile, cooking she could do. As she moved around in the kitchen chopping, stirring, and frying, the blonde just watched. The way Santana did everything was precise. She moved efficiently and with purpose. Santana just looked like she belonged. For all Brittany knew, Santana could have been a chef. It was odd. Brittany hadn't really had time to look at another person like she was looking at Santana right then. Sure she'd made friends as she rose to fame and she'd kept up her friendships, but her love life was a non-existent hot mess. Her last couple of relationships had been with people who had wanted to just use her for her connections. She'd backed completely out of the dating scene after those incidents without any intention of coming back. But now with this stranger, this homeless woman standing in front of her, Brittany thinks it'd be nice to have someone to come home to every night. Well, someone apart from Tubbs.

"Where do you want to eat?" Santana asked as she turned off the heat.

"Oh. We can eat on the counter."

Santana leaned over and set the plates and silverware down.

"Thanks. For cooking," Brittany grinned.

"Thanks. For letting me stay." Santana gave what could only be described as a shy smile back.

The two began eating in a tense silence broken only by the sounds of cutlery on plates.

"This is delicious. Tastes like rainbows."

"Thanks, I guess?" Possible red flag number one.

"So. Where are you from?"

"Kind of everywhere." Santana said carefully as the blonde stared at her. Continuing conversation had never been her strong suit. Shutting down conversation was much more her style.

"Well I grew up in Lima, then I moved to L.A. and now I'm here. For work."

"What do you do?"

"I was a dancer and now I'm a choreographer for musicals and stuff."

"Cool." Santana looked at the blonde. The long, toned, legs, the perfect body, it all made sense.

"So what do you do? How'd you end up, well, you know…"

"Homeless? It's kind of a long story." She said in that tone that meant the topic was no longer up for discussion.

"I've got time." Brittany shrugged and rested her head on her palm, with a curious expression on her face.

Santana cocked her head and furrowed her eyebrows. Usually when she brushed people off they didn't try again. But apparently those tactics wouldn't work on this blonde. A different approach would have to be employed.

"So is this huge apartment all for one person? Or do you have a significant other?"

"No. Just me. There's no one else. Well there's Lord Tubbington's son, Lord Tubbington Jr, but he's not really my significant other. Significant other means like a husband right? He loved LA and I think he's still adjusting to New York which is probably why you haven't seen him yet."

"Lord Tubbington? Who?"

"My cat."

Santana nearly choked on her food.

"Your cat?"

"I've had him since my other cat, Charity, kinda took off." Red flag. Definite red flag. Of course it was too good to be true, no sane person would just take a complete stranger into their home on Christmas Eve like that. Magic of Christmas? Yeah, didn't exist. But it was snowing like a bitch outside, freezing, no doubt, Santana was tired, and frankly, this woman seemed harmless enough, she was sure she could survive _one_ night here.

"Huh." She was just gonna humor this cat lady for that night, get a good night's sleep and dash first thing the next morning. Good plan, she commended herself.

* * *

><p>The two continued their conversation well into the already late night. Moving from the kitchen to the couch. Turned out, Brittany had a nice collection of schnapps (and vodka)<p>

"…So that was the last boyfriend I ever had. He actually turned out to be a really good friend though." Santana said, reminiscent smile on her face. Trouty mouth really was something. She couldn't seem to remember what his real name was though. Sam something.

"What do you mean? You haven't dated since high school?"

"No. He, uh, wasn't my type, Brittany." She let out a throaty chuckle. If you took away the crazy cat thing, the blonde was pretty cute.

"So? You could always date a different type of guy."

Ahh, might as well spell it out for her. What's the worst that could happen? She'd get kicked out?

"I'm gay."

"Oh. So he really wasn't your type."

"Nopee. No he was _not_." She half laughed, half giggled, full drunkenly. Man, what'd happened to her? She was a lightweight. Oh yeah, 3 years ago. Her life went up in clusterfuckery flames.

That was the last thing she remembered before passing out. Good thing Brittany wasn't out to rape and murder her in the middle of the night.


	4. Chapter 3

The next morning, Brittany was woken up by the delicious smell of eggs and bacon sizzling, from the kitchen, presumably. She smiled to herself, Santana kinda sounded like Santa. Maybe this Christmas, she was gonna have her wishes come true. Corny as that sounded.

"Morning, did you sleep well?" Brittany asked, rubbing a hand over her still slightly sleepy eyes. Somewhat surprised that the woman wasn't still in bed, groaning about a massive headache, like people normally would when they have a hangover.

"Brittany, hey, yeah. I slept better than I have in a long, long time."

The blonde made her way into the kitchen and peered into the pan, where - yup, her senses weren't wrong – bacon and eggs were cooking. No idea where the bacon and eggs even came from, but Brittany sure was glad they were there that morning. "You made breakfast." She noted.

Santana nodded. "It's only fair that I should, right? Besides, it's Christmas and you're injured."

Brittany's smile fell a little, she'd been hoping the brunette had wanted to make her breakfast. Not because it was the polite thing to do, not simply because it was Christmas, but because she liked her. Silly Brittany. Of course that weren't the case. If Santana really did like her, even as a friend, heck, even as just more than a stranger who's done an unexpected good deed, she'd done an incredible job of not showing it.

"Sorry about passing out on you last night, I guess," the brunette said, almost as if reading her mind, "I was just tired."

"No problem." Brittany waved it off airily, "It smells really good."

"Thanks." Santana gave a small smile before quickly turning off the heat and grabbing two plates from the counter. She'd only been there for less than a day, and in the kitchen once, but already, it felt like she had known the place forever, effortlessly moving around. Brittany found it to be a good thing.

As the blonde sat down (since Santana had insisted on her moving as little as possible), she couldn't help but want the brunette to stay. Not just to cook for her, and not just to keep an eye out for her injury either. Brittany wanted her to stay, because, well…she just wanted her to stay. It was probably evil of her to wish this, but she hoped to God or Budha or whomever was listening up there that it would snow that day. Or hail. Or whatever weather that would keep the other woman in her home. At least for another day. She thought about asking Santana to stay herself.

Immediately when their plates were both filled, Brittany grabbed her fork and started digging in, taking the first bite…

Oh, well, that tasted interesting…

Santana ate a forkful of her own, and instantly grimaced. "What the-"

What even was that? She'd made bacon and eggs countless times before, ever since she was fourteen, when her parents would all be out working and the maid would be gone as well, she's learned how to make meals for herself, among other things. This tasted like…something she never wanted to eat again. Then she remembered she had company. Brittany looked like she was about to throw up, but was trying to keep a smile on her face. "You don't have to eat that if you don't want to."

"No, no, I want to."

Santana smirked, "Ok, well, eat up then." She made no movement to get up, but rather, stayed and see if Brittany really would eat it all. That'd be amazing if she did.

The blonde smiled weakly before taking another bite. Maybe if she just swallowed without chewing? The two just stared awkwardly at each other for a couple of minutes, Santana with smirk still firmly in place, until Brittany grabbed the remote and turned on the T.V.

"I like to watch the morning news while I eat, y'know." Big fat lie. But people did watch news over breakfast a lot, and although she'd eaten her fair share of bad cooking (never, ever, **_ever_** let Quinn Fabray near the kitchen. You think burning water's bad? You have _no idea)_ but that dish was definitely up there with the best of the worst of them.

As Santana turned her attention towards the T.V. Brittany was afforded the opportunity to really study woman sitting opposite her. The beautiful profile, fit for an actress, or maybe even a model, the gorgeous hair, the surprisingly clear skin, those hands, with those –

"Shit!"

"What? Where's the fire? Where's Lord Tubbington?" Brittany jumped up frantically. about to sprint around the apartment. She tried to remember the fire drill everyone was taught before they moved into one of these apartments. There's a fire escape somewhere and Lord Tubbington Jr. She'd promised his dad, on his deathbed, to look after his son.

"Sorry." Santana gave an apologetic smile and cleared her throat. "It's just that we're snowed in." She gestured to the window, "Well according to the weather report. the gusts of wind and the temperature make it pretty dangerous to be outside. They're recommending everyone stay in..."

"Oh. So there's no fire? Lord Tubbington will be fine? You're staying?" A hint of a smile appeared on Brittany's face.

"No. No fire. But I was supposed to be leaving today. I'll still leave, obviously, it's not like I've never-"

"It's fine." The blonde couldn't cut in fast enough, "Tubbs likes having you around, aparently. He told me that yesterday." A full, genuine smile now. Ok, it made Santana melt a little. She was only human, after all.

"Are you sure? Because if it is I can totally leave. I mean I wouldn't want to intrude on your Christmas day plans and I know –" Santana rambled quickly, only to be interrupted by the taller woman again.

"Santana. Stop worrying. I don't mind. Honestly."

The woman's face softened for a tiny fraction of a second. "Really?"

"Yeah, really."

* * *

><p>What the fuck just happened.<p>

One minute, they were just chatting idly about Christmas and the cat- sorry, Lord Tubbington Jr and the next...it was a blur of something and something else and some other things mixed together.

Santana's mind was racing. Did she just channel her inner Madonna right then? And...kissed Brittany?

Her mind at that moment was just a string of "whatthehelljusthappened" and "wtfshehasnicelips argh, no, not appropriate thought, brain."

No really.

"Mmm, you're a good kisser."

Santana wanted to ask if that meant "you're a good kisser, just wanted to see what it'd be like to kiss a lesbian hobo." or if it meant "you're a good kisser, let's make out." or even if it meant "you're a good kisser, but so was my cat."

But instead, she didn't say anything.

When Brittany leaned in again, well, this time, Santana couldn't help herself. Fuck it, might as well.

Her lips were that soft, they tasted like something fruity, something sweet.

Yes, her gorgeous blonde hair really was good to get tangled up into.

No, she couldn't control her hands as they slid up the woman's body to cup her face.

Yes, more than anything, she wanted to push Brittany's body down, so that she would be on top of her. So she did.

Answers for questions Santana hadn't even known she had.

No, this was not a fantasy of some kind. She's not going to wake up. This was real. So very, very real.


End file.
